I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier, and even more important, where.

Why was I holding on to something that would never be mine? But isn't that what people do?

What keeps me interested--and it always does--is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality?

My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone.

No one will ever know anyone. We just have to deal with each other. You're not ever gonna know me.

If I want to write a movie, I'll write a screenplay, but if I have an idea for a book, it's something that I think can only be done novelistically.

I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that my normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning